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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

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NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


PS3$07 

.0  7 
R6 
1909 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022042406 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE                           RET. 
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DATE                            RET. 
DUE 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/romaotherpoemsOOdonn 


Of  this  edition  six  hundred  copies 
have  been  printed  for  private  distribu- 
tion only. 

This  is  Number 


ROMA 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


: 


<^<*zi^^z^€T 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


By 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  DONNELLY 


Q> 


i  909 
JAMES  T.  WHITE  &  CO. 

NEW  YORK 


PS 


ROMA 


Copyright,  1909 
By  JAMES  T.  WHITE  &  CO. 


The  Mason-Henry  Press 
Syracuse,  New  York 


CJjese  poems 

here  gathered  for  the  first  time,  are  sent 

to  the  friends  of  the  late 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  DONNELLY 

as  a  loving  tribute  to  his  memory 

by  his  wife 

AMY  FRANCES  COLLINS  DONNELLY 


911 

UrndL 


CONTENTS 

FOREWORD     xi 

SONNETS 

The  Holy  Rood 3 

The    Ascension 4 

My   Lady's    Garden 5 

The    Episcopal    Anniversary 6 

To   a  Lady 7 

Mother  Vincent    , 8 

Before   a   Portrait 9 

A  Last  Message 10 

Farewell     , 11 

Lines    to   a    Friend 12 

Blaine     13 

Lowell     14 

General   Meagher    15 

POEMS 

Roma    19 

You    and   I 21 

The   Obelisk    23 

At    Twilight    in    Autumn 26 

The   Building   of    the   Minster 28 


JUVENILIA 

A    Summer    Morning 33 

The   Irish-American's    Song 36 

War  Song   38 

The  Rain    Storm 40 

The  Old  Schoolhouse 46 

The    Acadians'    Hymn 48 

The   Churchyard    50 

In    Extremis    55 

NOTES    59 


FOREWORD 

The  life  of  a  literary  man  is  interesting  on  ac- 
count of  his  creations.  This  is  none  the  less  true 
even  though  the  work  that  survives  be  limited. 
If  the  sonnet  on  the  death  and  burial  of  James 
Russell  Lowell  were  the  only  poem  by  Charles 
Francis  Donnelly  to  be  given  to  the  world  the 
public  would  still  desire  to  know  something  of  the 
author  and  of  the  conditions  under  which  he  wrote. 

Mr.  Donnelly  was  born  in  Athlone,  County 
Roscommon,  Ireland.  He  was  the  son  of  Hugh 
and  Margaret  (Conway)  Donnelly.  The  orig- 
inal spelling  of  the  name  was  Ua  Donngaile,  his 
paternal  ancestors  being  of  an  old  Irish  sept  in 
the  north  who  were  chiefs  in  Tyrone,  at  Bally- 
donnelly  and  other  places.  The  family  traces 
descent  from  those  glorious  days  of  the  early  cen- 
turies of  the  Christian  era,  the  period  of  saints 
and  scholars,  when  in  Ireland  were  established 
the  much  frequented  centers  of  learning;  and  back 
yet  farther  from  the  sumptuous  richly  developed 


period  of  pagan  times  when  the  arts  were  culti- 
vated and  when  at  the  court  of  Tara  justice  was 
meted  out  and  a  code  of  honor  established;  when 
the  precepts  of  wise  King  Cormac  were  promul- 
gated; when  Find  and  Ossian  composed  their 
poetry  and  harpers  sang  traditional  melodies. 

On  his  mother's  side  the  family  of  Conway  was 
of  Welsh-Irish  stock  originating  in  the  west  of 
Wales.  In  this  family  were  many  distinguished 
individuals,  and  both  on  the  paternal  and  maternal 
side  Mr.  Donnelly's  ancestors  were  members  of 
the  learned  professions  distinguished  alike  for 
scholarship,  patriotism,  and  religious  loyalty.  His 
grandfather,  Dominick  Donnelly,  was  a  teacher 
of  Latin   at  his  home  in  Clogher,   Tyrone. 

In  1837  Hugh  Donnelly,  who  had  been  a  suc- 
cessful woolen  draper  in  Athlone,  brought  his 
family  to  Canada.  He  established  his  residence 
in  St.  John,  New  Brunswick,  where  Charles 
Francis  was  educated  in  private  schools  and  at  the 
New  Brunswick  Presbyterian  Academy.  Later, 
Mrs.  Donnelly,  who  was  a  woman  of  brilliant 
intellect  and  great  dignity  of  character,  conducted 
a  successful  private  school  at  Yarmouth,  Nova 
Scotia.     In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  note 


that  many  of  those  who  were  connected  by  ties  of 
blood  to  the  author  of  these  poems  were  dis- 
tinguished as  writers  or  teachers.  His  uncle, 
Charles  Conway,  was  on  the  staff  of  the  New 
York  Tribune;  his  aunt,  Mother  Vincent,  after 
some  years  as  a  religious  at  Mount  St.  Vincent's- 
on-the-Hudson,  founded  the  teaching  Sisters  of 
Charity  in  St.  John,  New  Brunswick,  where  his 
only  sister  afterwards  entered;  and  a  brother  was 
a  member  of  the  priesthood. 

In  1848  Hugh  Donnelly  with  his  family  re- 
moved to  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  here 
Charles  Francis  completed  his  classical  studies. 
In  1856  he  began  the  study  of  law  in  the  office 
of  Hon.  Ambrose  A.  Ranney,  of  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts. He  also  attended  the  Harvard  Law 
School,  and  was  graduated  with  the  degree  of 
LL.B.  in  1859.  In  September  of  the  same  year 
he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  and  at  once  entered 
upon  the  practice  of  his  profession.  He  soon 
became  known  as  an  entertaining  vacation  cor- 
respondent for  Boston  newspapers  and  as  a  writer 
on  educational  topics,  especially  as  these  related 
to  Catholic  citizens. 

During  the  years  i860  and  1861  a  large  part 


of  his  time  was  spent  in  New  York  and  Washing- 
ton, and  while  in  these  cities  much  of  his  most 
distinctive  literary  work  was  published  in  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine  and  other  secular  jour- 
nals over  the  pen-name  of  "Schuyler  Conway." 
Essays,  poems,  Washington  correspondence,  and 
personal  sketches  came  in  rapid  succession  from 
his  pen,  but  the  law  made  a  stronger  appeal  than 
letters  and  eventually  his  briefs  were  too  numerous 
to  allow  of  a  divided  allegiance.  In  all  forms  of 
composition,  of  which  his  poetry  is  the  most  vital 
expression,  he  gave  marked  evidence  of  unusual 
literary  skill  and  artistic  feeling,  but  he  was  his  own 
most  severe  critic  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  he 
himself  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  his  poetic 
composition.  Upon  his  return  to  Boston  he  re- 
sumed the  practice  of  law  and  it  soon  became 
apparent  that  he  was  to  occupy  a  high  position 
not  only  in  his  profession  but  in  civic  affairs  as 
well. 

Both  of  his  parents  were  Catholics  and  he  al- 
ways adhered  to  the  religion  of  his  forefathers 
with  a  zeal  which  found  its  greatest  manifestation 
in  acts  of  charity.  In  recognition  of  his  serv- 
ices to  the  Church  in  America  the  honorary  degree 


of  LL.D.  was  conferred  upon  him  by  St.  Mary's 
College,  Maryland,  in  1885. 

Mr.  Donnelly,  although  reserved,  was  courteous 
and  genial  in  all  his  relations.  He  was  noted  for 
his  cheerfulness,  ready  wit,  and  quickness  of 
repartee.  Genius  is  the  predominant  character- 
istic of  the  Irish  race,  and  in  no  other  phase  of  a 
very  versatile  character  does  Mr.  Donnelly  better 
reveal  his  heritage  than  in  his  poetic  utterances. 
In  primitive  times  the  office  of  poet  was  identified 
with  that  of  prophet  or  seer.  The  author  of 
"Roma"  also  demonstrated  that  his  soul  had  a 
supernatural  elevation.  The  scene  of  that  poem 
was  visualized  by  his  spirit  alone,  for  in  the  flesh 
Mr.  Donnelly  had  never  visited  Rome.  In  the 
poem  "My  Lady's  Garden,"  which  is  replete 
with  delicate  imagery,  an  exquisite  tribute  is  offered 
to  the  lady  who  eventually  became  the  author's 
wife. 

Mr.  Donnelly  possessed  in  a  marked  degree 
the  imagination  that  is  characteristic  of  both  the 
Irish  race  and  the  brotherhood  of  poets,  and 
which,  as  an  original  creative  force,  is  akin  to  the 
controlling  power  of  the  universe. 

The    Celtic    revival   has    produced    in    Ireland 


poets  of  no  ordinary  ability.  Wicklow  Moun- 
tain, the  historic  island  of  Iona,  and  the  isolated 
Aran  islands  have  all  been  the  haunts  of  vision- 
aries; but  just  as  truly  did  Charles  Francis  Don- 
nelly see  visions,  albeit  they  came  to  him  by  his 
own  hearthstone  and  in  America,  the  land  of  his 
adoption. 

Mabel  Ward  Cameron. 

Boston,  May,  1909. 


SONNETS 


THE  HOLY  ROOD 

Against  the  darkened  sky  the  cruel  tree 

Unpitying  stood,  mocking  the  sad  day 

On  the  deserted  mount,  while  all  earth  lay 

Deep  rent,  in  fitful,  throbbing  agony; 

And,  awed,  the  far-off  multitude  did  see 

The  armored  Roman  through  the  gloom  delay, 

With  spear  bent,  and  the  sacred  side  essay 

To  pierce;  as  oft  foretold  in  prophecy. 

Yet  that  shunned  tree  is  long  the  Holy  Rood; 

Transfigured  by  the  sanctifying  light 

Of   Heaven,    and,   grafted   there,   wide   branches 

forth — 
A  symbol  which  unchangeably  hath  stood 
The  emblem  of  Redemption,  and  the  sight 
Of  it  helps  man  to  follow  Christ  on  earth. 


THE  ASCENSION 

"O  Virgin  Mother,  thy  beloved  Son 

Passed  out  the  Shushan  Gate  this  eve,  and  lo ! 

Down  Kidron's  silent  valley  then  did  go; 

Thence  climbing  slowly,  ere  the  day  was  done, 

Went  on  to  Bethany,  just  as  the  sun 

Sank  in  the  distant  hills,  and  then  the  glow 

Of  Heaven  itself  o'er  Olivet  did  show 

Our  Saviour's  wondrous  course  with  us  nigh  run." 

Thus  went  the  story  Mary  calmly  heard, 
And  the  next  morn  on  Olivet's  chief  height 
She  stood,  as  the  unfolding  clouds  rolled  forth, — 
When  at  the  gentle  summons  of  the  Lord, 
Her  Son  was  borne  up  from  her  raptured  sight, 
And  left  her  waiting  yet  awhile  on  earth. 


MY  LADY'S  GARDEN 

There  is  a  garden  where  my  love  doth  dwell, 
Not  walled  nor  hedged  in  'gainst  cloister  gray, 
Yet  cinctured  as  the  Virgin's  chaplet  may 
A  saint-like  nun,  who  passeth  from  her  cell 
At  holy  vesper  tide,  her  beads  to  tell, 
Or  with  her  sisters  in  the  choir  to  say 
The  office  of  the  hour,  and  fervent  pray, 
While  chimeth  faint  the  convent's  steepled  bell. 
Naught  noxious  groweth  in  that  garden  fair, 
Nor  nothing  garish  ever  there  is  seen; 
Like  its  dear  mistress  must  it  always  be, 
Adorned  with  nature's  symbols  everywhere, 
Of  Virtue,  in  each  varied  phase  and  mien, 
With,  gentlest  of  her  charms,  sweet  modesty. 


THE  EPISCOPAL  ANNIVERSARY 

(March  12,  a.d.  1866) 

Tu  es  sacerdos  in  aternum 

Each  bark  that  sails  the  waters  of  the  deep 

Must  bear  a  Master  on  the  boundless  sea, 

To  guide  her  on  her  course,  and  whither  she 

Shall  voyage  with  her  valued  freight,  to  reap 

The  harvest  of  emprise,  and  safely  keep 

It  garnered;  when  her  prow  shall  turn  and  feel 

Her  way  towards  port,  with  proudly  plowing  keel, 

Till  gladly  comes  in  view  upon  the  steep 

Bold  headland  the  bright  pharos  of  her  home. 

O  Pilot  of  our  bark,  throughout  the  night 

Of  all  this  travailing  our  pharos  be, 

Until  our  looked-for  journey's  end  shall  come, 

When  we  may  see  Our  Master's  radiant  light, 

And  from  the  wretched  thralls  of  earth  be  free. 


TO  A  LADY 

Dear  Lady,  I  cannot  thy  thoughts  divine, 

Nor  dare  not  on  thy  tranquil  life  intrude, 

Yet  watch  thee  in  thy  ways  of  doing  good, 

As  one  would  vigil  keep  at  some  saint's  shrine; 

Still  his  devotion  would  by  look  nor  sign 

Not  show,  but  in  the  silent  hours  would  brood 

On  pious  deeds,  in  sacred  solitude, 

While  through  the  shade  the  votive  lamp  would 

shine 
With  vestal  light  on  his  unquiet  soul; 
A  guide  to  peace  and  moving  it  to  still 
The  worldly  longings  binding  him  to  earth. 
Thus  I,  too,  watching  yet  may  reach  the  goal 
Of  all  the  good,  and  then  see  Christ  there  fill, 
Full  to  the  brim,  the  measure  of  thy  worth. 


MOTHER  VINCENT 

(Obit  May  27,  1892) 

Proud  Dover's  castle  thundered  a  salute 

Of  victory,  and  vanquished  France  bowed  low, — 

Then  came  the  hush  of  peace  to  friend  and  foe, 

And  then,  while  the  embrasured  fort  stood  mute, 

A  child  was  born  within,  the  blessed  fruit 

Of  sacramental  love,  silent  to  grow 

To  womanhood,  and  missioned  to  bestow 

Sweet  Charity;  nor  kin  nor  creed  to  moot. 

And  so  she  grew,  and  wafted  to  our  shore 

In  modest  preparation  sought  her  way 

To  serve  the  Lord;  nun-vestured  then  went  forth 

Among  the   poor,    and  blessings   scattered   while 

she  bore 
Herself  with  saintly  mien;  till  came  the  day 
When,  summoned  hence,  she  upward  passed  from 
earth. 


BEFORE  A  PORTRAIT 

(J.  E.  S.     Obit  June,  1892) 

True  Heart,  thy  captive  soul  from  prison  fled 
One  day,  as  the  ungathered  roses  fell; 
Then  came  the  mourning,  and  the  passing  bell, 
And  the  green  earth  received  thee  with  the  dead. 
Yet  to  the  stars  beyond  the  cedars  led 
A  messenger  thy  ransomed  soul,  to  dwell 
In  Paradise, — and  bid  the  world  farewell, 
Alas,  with  much  at  parting  left  unsaid. 

O  Limner,  when  didst  thou  those  features  trace? 
Not  in  the  shrouded  mist  of  years  gone  by; 
Nor  in  the  darkness  of  his  hour  of  flight; 
Nay,  in  his  summer  blossoming, — that  face 
To  us  did  so  appear,  with  lighted  eye, 
With  gentle,  kindly  look, — at  manhood's  height. 


A  LAST  MESSAGE 

A  faith-inspiring  woman  to  the  end — 

uThy  will  be  done,"  she  said,  when  dying, 

And  then,  while  friends  stood  hopeless  sighing, 

"This  message  only  to  my  husband  send: 

Tell  him,"  with  loving  look  she  gently  said, 

"For  twenty  years  we  lived  together — " 

Soon  then  in  the  summer  weather, 

Her  soul  from  its  dear  tenement  had  fled. 

Thus  breathed  she  words  of  love  from  out  the 

past, 
And  died,  true  wife  and  fondest  mother — 
Not  soon  shall  we  see  such  another, 
To  faith  and  love  so  true,  and  to  the  last. 
In  that  sweet  message  of  her  soul  sublime 
She  meant  not  the  old  love  to  sever; 
She  bade  him  not  farewell  forever, 
But  waits  his  coming,  in  God's  own  good  time. 


FAREWELL 

O  loyal  heart,  stilled  in  eternal  sleep, 
We  prison  thee  now  in  thy  narrow  cell, 
There  in  the  silent,  starless  night  to  dwell, 
While  thy  fond,  life-long  mate  doth  constant  weep. 
O  'franchised  soul,  with  her  thou  yet  shalt  keep, 
Some  day  in  heaven,  as  tolls  on  earth  her  bell, 
Sweet  tryst,  and  there  again  shalt  gently  tell 
Her  of  thy  love,  and  virtue's  guerdon  reap. 
Sleep  on,  true  friend,  in  quiet  slumber  rest — 
An  oak  the  sentinel  at  thy  green  grave; 
As  if  to  symbolize  the  manly  part 
Thou  playd'st  in  life,  when  honor  was  at  test, 
And  man  to  man  due  proof  of  honor  gave. 
Adieu,    loved    friend;    sleep    on,    brave,    trusting 
heart. 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  PRESENTING 
A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 

You  like  the  poets  of  a  former  time, 
Payne,  Bryant,  Willis,  Halleck  and  the  rest, 
And  they  sang  bravely  when  they  sang  their  best; 
One,  sad  exile,  sang  in  many  a  clime, 
Of  home;  and  one  in  organ  strains  sublime 
Would  requiems  sing  grandly  for  the  west; 
And  one  with  tender  pity  would  invest 
Each  erring  soul,  or  else  in  sacred  rhyme 
Would   hymn-like    sing    through    all    our    forest 

aisles. 
Another's  songs  of  men  and  arms  would  sound — 
But  let  us  leave  the  poets  of  the  past, 
Each  his  admirers,  as  of  old,  beguiles, 
And  hope,  sir,  in  this  volume  may  be  found 
A  later  poet  to  your  mind — at  last. 


BLAINE 

The  bells  are  tolling  in  the  winter  gale, — 
A  chief  lies  dead,  in  all  a  chieftain's  state, 
Beyond  all  praise,  or  blame,  or  foeman's  hate 
No  more  to  hearken  to  his  clansmen's  hail, 
No  more  to  win  again,  no  more  to  fail. 
No  more  he'll  proudly  battle  in  debate, 
No  more  he'll  war  against  a  wayward  fate. — 
No  more  shall  Envy's  shafts  the  dead  assail. 

Enshroud  the  Capitol  with  signs  of  woe, — 
The  Nation  mourns  a  well-beloved  son; 
Forgives  the  faults  his  virtues  far  outweigh, 
And,  spite  of  party  rancor,  men  shall  show 
All  honor  yet,  for  many  deeds  well  done, 
To  him  who  living  did  a  great  part  play. 


13 


LOWELL 

No  bugle  blast  sounds  through  the  summer  air; 
Nor  tramp  of  riderless  and  neighing  steed 
In  solemn  march,  behind  the  car,  we  heed; 
Nor  muffled  drum  is  heard;  nor  trumpet  blare; 
Nor  volleyed  fire;  nor  shrouding  smoke  is  seen. — 
Yet  in  the  earth  to-day  a  soldier's  form 
We  laid;  one  who  brave  bore  the  brunt  and  storm 
Of  battle  front  with  knightly  skill  and  mien. 
Rest,  minstrel,  after  all  earth's  weary  strife; — 
Fair  Harvard  hath  borne  many  sons,  but  none 
So  tenderly  beloved  as  those  who  gave 
Their  youth  and  manhood's  prime,  and  even  life, 
To  Freedom's  cause,  until  the  field  was  won, 
And  no  man  dare  to  call  his  brother  slave. 


14 


GENERAL  MEAGHER 

Above  him  shone  the  fitful  glory's  light; 
With  youthful  voice  he  roused  his  native  land, 
And  with  her  Tribune  nobly  took  his  stand ; 
Forever  then  was  exiled  from  her  sight. 
Flow  of  the  gentle  Suir,  Dungarvin's  height, 
The  altar  where  he  knelt  in  boyhood's  hour, 
His  mother's  grave,  the  quay,  the  pillar  tower 
Knew  him  no  more;  yet  oft  in  Austral  night, 
And  'neath  our  starry  flag  when  day  would  fade, 
He'd  sigh  for  but  one  look  at  all  behind; 
For  it  was  still  the  land  he  loved  the  best; 
Gold  nor  place  could  never  make  him  trade. 
Farewell  then,  soul  unloosed, — 
An  exile's  dreary  grave  now  gives  him  rest. 


J5 


POEMS 


ROMA 

Against  the  Arch  of  Janus  is  a  spring 

Of  water,  clearer  than  the  air  and  clime; 

Amidst  the  past  the  only  living  thing, 

It  still  flows  onward  through  the  wreck  of  time. 

Near,  the  Cloaca  winds  its  oozy  way — 

The    sewer    which    Proud    Tarquin    built    for 
Rome — 

Betwixt  the  hill  where  Numa  once  held  sway, 
And  that  where  stood  the  Senate's  stately  dome. 

By  Janus  Bifrons,  thence  in  snake-like  twine — 
The  Forum,  and  whence  Vesta  fled  below; 

By  the  Velabrum,  and  Virginia's  shrine, 

It  crawls  to  where  the  Tiber's  reeds  yet  grow. 

Beside  the  sewer,  with  its  slimy  flood, 

The  little  spring  has  calmly  flowed  and  run 

For  ages,  in  accord  with  all  things  good, 
Spite  of  Cloaca  and  the  scorching  sun. 
19 


So  the  fair  lily  from  the  depth  shall  rise 
A  vestal  still,  up  from  its  sedgy  bed; 

So  stars  shall  lustrous  gleam  through  stormy  skies ; 
So  unmailed  virtue,  too,  'mid  vice  may  tread. 

So  love  flows  ever  from  the  Throne  of  Grace; 

So  flows  the  swelling  fountain  of  the  heart; 
So  in  God's  works  we  all  can  clearly  trace 

Rare  sermons,  far  beyond  the  preacher's  art. 

O  City  of  the  Soul !     We  look  to  thee 

As  pilgrims  look  from  the  Campagna  drear, 

Kneeling,  with  uplift  hands,  when  first  they  see 
Saint  Peter's  in  the  sunset  glow  appear. 


YOU  AND  I 

Shall  we  forth  together  journey,  you  and  I, 
Whate'er  betide,  in  one  endeavor; 
Not  for  to-day  alone,  but  ever ; 
Nor  spite  of  calm  or  storm  once  sever, 
You  and  I? 


Shall  we  tread  the  highway  dreary,  you  and  I, 
With  calm,  cold  eyes  at  us  oft  staring, 
We  undaunted,  nor  for  them  caring; 
With  love  to  cheer  and  fortune  daring, 
You  and  I? 


Shall  we  wander  through  green  by-ways,  you  and  I, 
Hand  in  hand  the  time  beguiling, 
On  together,  and  nature  smiling; 
We  naught  marring,  naught  defiling, 
You  and  I? 


When  we  find  the  years  thus  vanish,  you  and  I, 
Shall  we  then,  love,  await  the  ending 
At  the  river,  in  spirit  bending; 
None  disdaining,  in  naught  offending, 
You  and  I? 


22 


THE  OBELISK 

Each  stone  a  history  doth  mutely  tell 
Of  elemental  change,  or  peace,  or  war; 

It  taketh  impress  from  each  touch  as  well 
As  from  a  graver's  edge,  to  make  or  mar. 

So  hewn  or  rent  from  the  strong  parent  rock 
It  liveth  thence  its  own  immobile  life, 

And  nature  worketh  into  form  the  block 

With  wind  and  wave,  and  ceaseless  chymic  strife. 

But  art  doth  make  the  dumb  block  speak  to  all; 

Some  hidden  meaning,  or  some  plain-told  tale; — 
A  trophy  won,  a  patriot's  sad  fall, 

A  sculptor's  dream,  a  woman's  tristful  wail. 

The  stranger  at  the  Flaminian  Gate, 
First  sees  erect  within  a  mystic  stone, 

Mute  captive,  borne  from  Egypt  by  the  state 
And  there  left  prisoned  mid  the  past,  alone. 
23 


It  there  points  mutely  upward  to  the  sky, 
While  down  its  symbol-carven  sides  we  read 

Of  one  who  ruled  in  Afric  history, 

And  wisely  served  his  land  in  direst  need. 

The  wise  Psammetichus  reigned  in  the  day 
When  haughty  Babylon  smote  Judah  down; 

When    Hebrew    prophets    mourned   the    tyrant's 
sway, 
And  Cyrus  seized  Belshazzar's  fateful  crown. 

The  shaft  was  reared  by  Neku,  next  in  line, 
An  obelisk  from  Egypt  to  her  king, 

It  stands,  of  his  famed  past  the  only  sign, 
To  point  the  end  of  ev'ry  earthly  thing. 

It  stood  beside  the  Nile,  and  viewed  afar 
The  tawny  desert,  and  the  lion  free, 

Proud  Karnak's  temple,  and  each  occult  star, 
Ere  Rome  was  founded  on  an  augury. 

It  standeth  still  above  the  Corso's  throng, 
As  when  the  Caesars  marched  to  war  away, 

And  their  returning  legions  strode  along, — 
It  yet  shall  stand  though  men  and  states  decay. 
24 


A  monument  of  Egypt's  ruined  past, 

It  too  must  fall,  by  Fate's  slow-wrought  decree ; 
Thus  warning  man  this  lower  life  at  last 

Ends  at  the  threshold  of  eternity. 


25 


AT  TWILIGHT  IN  AUTUMN 

With  ev'ning  shades  let  us  our  care  subdue, 
My  soul,  and  from  this  window  outward  look, 
To  muse  in  silence  o'er  that  unsealed  book, 
Kind  Nature's  page,  illumined  now  anew, 
A  lustrous  lettered  missal  to  our  view. 


Jacob  far  back  in  ages  past  did  see, 

On  his  Syrian  journey,  in  his  dream, 

A  ladder,  lifted,  as  to  him  did  seem, 

'Gainst  heaven,  whence  to  him  God  said :  "In  thee 

Thy  seed  and  all  the  tribes  shall  blessed  be." 

Then  Beth-el,  or  God's  House,  he  named  the  place, 
And  then  towards  Haran's  Well  he  went  his  way. 
But  where  is  not  God's  House,  might  each  one 

say, 
My  soul?     For  in  the  firmament  we  trace 
The  wondrous  dome,  extending  o'er  all  space. 

26 


Pillared  and  columned  by  each  mountain  height — 
And  builded  by  the  one  Almighty  hand — 
Through  all  its  aisles,  like  some  cathedral  grand, 
Come  psalm-like  strains;  not  Nature  in  her  might, 
But  calmly  worshipful,  all  through  the  night. 

Let  us,  my  soul,  henceforth  not  less  so  be, 
And  as  the  sage  Chaldeans  long  ago 
By  gazing  heavenward  first  learned  to  know 
That  Christ  had  come ;  so  magi-like,  should  we 
Gaze  up,  the  glory  of  God's  works  to  see. 


27 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  MINSTER 


In  the  great  street  of  a  city  men  idly  stood  awhile, 
Watching  workers  rearing  slowly,  stone  by  stone, 

a  Gothic  pile. 
One  thus  standing  turned  and  gravely  said:  "What 

waste  of  money  there, 
While  to  the  poor  if  it  were  given,  'twould  call 

down  blessings  ev'rywhere." 


Hearing   such   words,   none   dissenting,    quoth   I: 

"Yet  can  he  be  right?" 
Then  bethought  me  of  the  scene  at  Simon's  house, 

where  supped  one  night 
Our  Redeemer,  and  let  Mary  precious  oil  pour  on 

His  feet, 
And  then  the  betrayer,  Judas,  spake  as  this  one 

on  the  street. 

28 


Still  unto  them  all  said  Jesus:  "Ev'rywhere  ye 
preach  my  word 

There  that  done  me  by  this  woman  in  remem- 
brance shall  be  heard." 

Then  I  thought  of  weary  pilgrims  who  would 
tarry  on  life's  way, 

And  that  temple  gladly  enter  with  their  Lord 
oft-times  to  stay. 

Not  such  pilgrims  nor  such  palmers  as  o'er  paynim 

wastes  were  bent 
To   the   Holy   Places   wending;   rather   those   on 

Christ  intent; 
Their  pure  gold,  and  myrrh,  and  incense  to  lay  at 

His  blessed  feet, 
Churches  are  inns  on  life's  journey;  servants  His 

priests,  guests  to  greet. 


29 


JUVENILIA 


A  SUMMER  MORNING 

The  crowing  cock  warns  night  to  hie  away; 
The  stately  queen  resigns  her  awful  sway; 
Each  feathered  warbler  sings  his  matin  lay 
As  slowly  breaks  the  blithesome  coming  day. 

The  cawing  rook  flits  through  the  hazy  air; 
The  cunning  fox  slinks  slyly  to  his  lair; 
The  sun  bursts  forth  with  burning,  lusty  glare, 
And  hotly  kisses  now  the  landscape  fair. 

On  each  tree  and  tower  and  steeple  high 
Is  glistening  the  moisture  of  the  sky; 
From  ev'ry  field  comes  forth  the  farmer's  cry; 
And  straining  oxen  with  each  other  vie. 

The  creaking  cart  wheels  down  the  rutted  lane, 
While  closely  by  it  walks  the  shouting  swain; 
The  sunlight  flashes  on  each  cottage  pane, 
And  brightly  shines  the  gilded  village  vane. 

33 


The  sluggard  yawns  and  turns  upon  his  bed ; 
The  housewife  sees  the  clucking  poultry  fed; 
Each  lazy  schoolboy  now  becomes  in  dread, 
For  ev'ry  tiresome  task  must  soon  be  said. 

Now  smoke  curls  upward  from  the  chimney  tall; 
On  clinking  anvils  sturdy  hammers  fall; 
The  dog  bounds  forward  at  his  master's  call; 
And  squirrels  gambol  on  the  gray  stone  wall. 

The  barefoot  maid  trips  coyly  up  the  dell, 
With  dripping  buckets  from  the  mossy  well; 
The  roving  bee  has  left  its  honeyed  cell; 
O'er  dewy  meadows  sounds  the  tinkling  bell. 

Along  the  road  the  early  trav'ler  sings, 
While  on  his  staff  a  little  bundle  swings ; 
Clearly  the  post-horn's  mellow  music  rings, 
As  to  yon  wood  the  timid  rabbit  springs. 

The  lowing  kine,  in  one  long  tardy  train, 
Once  more  their  close-cropp'd  pasture  find  again; 
While  dull-edg'd  scythes  are  whetted  on  the  plain, 
And  brawny  mowers  sweep  the  grassy  main. 

34 


From  dusty  hillocks  busy  ants  now  creep; 
O'er  broad  green  acres  graze  the  snowy  sheep; 
The  angry  bull,  thundering  loud  and  deep, 
Attempts,  in  vain,  the  well-barr'd  gate  to  leap. 

Now  round  the  verdant  country,  far  and  near, 
The  hum  of  labor  ev'rywhere  we  hear; 
Each  robin's  carol  echoes  sweet  and  clear, 
And  insects'  chirping  greet  the  listening  ear. 

White  clouds  sail  slowly  in  the  ether  blue; 
The  sun,  now  smiling,  brightens  all  in  view; 
The  face  of  Mother  Nature,  ever  new, 
Enchants  the  senses,  mind,  and  spirit  too. 


35 


THE  IRISH-AMERICAN'S  SONG 

April,   1 86 1 

Would  we  desert  you  now, 

Flag  of  the  Free, 
When  we  a  solemn  vow, 

Flag  of  the  Free, 
You  from  all  harm  to  save, 
Made  when  we  crossed  the  wave, 
And  you  a  welcome  gave, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 

Whose  aid  to  cheer  us  came, 

Flag  of  the  Free, 
When  to  proud  England's  shame, 

Flag  of  the  Free, 
Famine  swept  o'er  our  land, 
Death  ravaged  ev'ry  band, 
And  loosed  the  tyrant's  hand, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 
36 


Are  we  now  cowards  grown, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 
Would  we  you  now  disown, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 
You  to  whose  folds  we  fled, 
You  in  whose  cause  we've  bled, 
Bearing  you  at  our  head, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 

Could  we  desert  you  now, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 
And  to  black  traitors  bow, 

Flag  of  the  Free? 
Never !  Through  good  and  ill 
Ireland  her  blood  will  spill 
Bearing  you  onward  still, 

Flag  of  the  Free. 


37 


WAR  SONG 
1861 

Praise  to  the  Lord  for  souls  so  brave — 
A  million  freemen  all  in  arms, 
A  million  hearts,  a  million  hands, 

Uplifted  now  our  flag  to  save. 

For  them  let  anthems  proudly  swell; 
Let  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  all — 
Emblazon  high  and  clear  each  deed, 

And  History's  scroll  the  story  tell. 

Praise  to  the  Lord  for  men  who  fight, 
Not  for  base  despots,  not  for  gold, 
But  for  stern  order  and  the  Law; 

For  union,  liberty  and  right. 

How  bravely  now  they  stride  along, 
Gray  veterans  and  young  volunteers; 
Forward  they  march  with  thundering  tread, 

Equipped  and  armed,  a  million  strong. 

38 


Praise  to  the  Lord,  how  grand  the  sight! 
A  people  rising  in  their  wrath — 
Woe  to  the  traitors,  hope  for  slaves — 

Swords  and  bayonets  flashing  bright. 

No  blanching  cheek,  no  craven  hearts; 
No  cowards  in  those  serried  ranks — 
They  fear  not  death;  with  hearts  aflame 

They  go  to  do  the  freeman's  part. 

Praise  to  the  Lord  for  souls  so  brave, 
Who  strive  for  right  with  hearts  aflame; 
Praise  one  and  all  forevermore, 

Who  spring  to  arms  our  flag  to  save. 


39 


THE  RAIN  STORM 

From  the  German 

"Thuck-cluck,"  chants  the  solemn-faced  clock  with 
a  stare, 

He  points  at  four  with  his  long,  lean  finger; 
Good  Grandma  is  nodding  away  in  her  chair, 

And  the  slow  hours  now  quietly  linger. 
"Luck-luck,"  saith  the  sober-faced  clock  in  great 
glee, 

As  he  chuckles — the  rain  is  fast  falling — 
Naught  careth  he  for  the  bleak  air  on  the  lea, 

As  he  tells  each  past  hour  with  loud  thrumming. 

"Cheer  up,"  chirps  the  cricket,  from  out  his  snug 
hole, 

While  the  cat  his  head's  sleepily  turning; 
All  round  the  still  house  not  the  stir  of  a  soul; 

On  the  hearth  not  a  spark  is  now  burning. 
"Cheer  up,"  sings  the  little  gay  cricket  again, 

And  back  echoes  the  tiny  sound  cheerful; 
The  hum  of  a  bluebottle's  heard  now  and  then; 

The  wee  mice  in  the  wainscot  grow  fearful. 
40 


But  deeper  gloom  falls  on  ceiling  and  floor; 

To  his  cobweb  each  spider  is  creeping; 
Grim  and  weird  shadows  flit  through  window  and 
door, 

And  the  house  dog  is  heavily  sleeping. 
Now  even  the  cricket  has  ceased  to  be  heard; 

Sad,  dull  silence  is  ev'rywhere  reigning; 
Without  not  a  chirp  nor  a  song  from  a  bird, 

As  the  beams  of  the  pale  sun  are  waning. 


Aloft  once  more  sounds  the  loon's  warning,  lone 
cry; 
By  the  low  walls  the  wind  is  now  wailing; 
Dull  clouds  scud  with  swiftness  across  the  gray 
sky, 
And  the  blue  spots  above  are  fast  veiling. 
Far  distant  hills  gloomily  loom  up  to  view; 
The  fitful  wind  the  sedgy  pool  wimples, 
And  the  brook  from  the  black  clouds  takes  a  dark 
hue, 
While  its  surface  the  greedy  trout  dimples. 


41 


"Haw-haw,"  laughs  the  wicked  black  crow  as  he 
flies, 
Like  an  imp  of  the  Evil  One  jeering; 
Straight  to  his  roost  in  the  dark  woods  he  hies, 

All  the  while  for  the  carrion  peering. 
"Go,  rogue,"  croaks  the  yellow-mouthed  frog  to 
the  crow; 
From  the  shunned   marsh   where  will  o'   wisp 
dances, 
"Haw-haw,"  comes  back  mockingly,  yet  faint  and 
low, 
As  the  reeds  bend  like  warriors'  lances. 

The   dust   on   the   road   now   whirls   round   and 
around ; 
On  the  house-eve  the  pigeon  is  cooing; 
Each    swallow    skims    swiftly    along    the    drear 
ground ; 
Each  ox  in  his  stanchions  is  chewing. 
Big  drops  fall  and  patter  on  window  and  roof; 

The  parched  plants  in  the  garden  are  drooping; 
The  horse  in  the  field  with  head  bowed  stands 
aloof, 
And  the  sheep  to  their  shelter  are  trooping. 

42 


The  wayfarer  speeds  to  the  first  hut  he  spies; 

From  his  burrow  the  weasel  is  peeping; 
Amid  the  tall  trees  the  wind  frets  and  sighs; 

Then  o'er  hill,  plain  and  forest  goes  sweeping. 
The  cold  rain  drives  fiercely  and  fitfully  now; 

Soon  it  drenches  the  woodlands  and  highway; 
Floods    ev'ry   broad   meadow,    morass    and   deep 
slough, 

And  cleaves  gullies  across  each  green  by-way. 


Chill  day  leaves  the  landscape  sad,  dark  and  for- 
lorn; 
Round  and  round  whirs  the  weather-vane  creak- 
ing; 
Along  on  the  wild  air  fierce  noises  are  borne, 
For  the  storm-sprites  are  angrily  shrieking. 
The   candle-light  shines   through   the   glassy   wet 
pane, 
On  the  broad  hearth  the  faggots  are  blazing; 
Good  grandma  now  knits  and  then  dozes  again, 
While  the  cat  at  the  embers  sits  gazing. 


43 


"Ho-ho!"  roars  the  chimney-elf  merry  and  long; 

In  the  soot  the  droll  goblin  is  singing; 
Till  midnight  he  trolls  out  his  noisy  odd  song, 

As  the  wind  through  the  rafters  keeps  ringing. 
Till  midnight  he  laughs  and  he  echoes  "Ho-ho!" 

Through  each  gust  the  old  casement  is  shaking; 
He  keeps  his  carouse  till  the  hearth  fire  burns  low, 

And  the  moon  through  the  black  clouds  is  break- 
ing. 


Now  ghost-like,  soft  whispers  are  heard  in  each 
room, 

In  the  garret  amid  the  old  lumber; 
Round  glide  household  spirits  and  dead  from  the 
tomb, 

While  the  good  folk  are  hushed  in  deep  slumber. 
On  tip-toe  they  restlessly  wander  about, 

Then  each  chamber  go  suddenly  haunting; 
At  last  through  the  keyhole  they  quickly  troop  out, 

Not  a  whit  sly  and  watchful  puss  daunting. 


44 


"Thuck-cluck,"  saith  the  solemn-faced  clock  with 
a  stare, 
He  points  at  one  with  a  long,  lean  finger; 
From  the  wood  the  owl's  hoot  sounds  on  the  still 
air, 
And  the  lone  night  hours  drowsily  linger. 


45 


THE  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE 

It  stood  by  the  green  wayside,  I  remember  it  well, 
As  it  looked  each  shining  morning  I   loitered 
along, 
Village  sounds  mingling  faintly  with  the  ring  of 
the  bell, 
While    from   the   calm,    dewy   fields   came   the 
robin's  glad  song. 


Bright  mornings  of  boyhood,  from  the  Giver  of 
all  good, 
Every  leaf  breathing   fragrance  on   the   cool, 
healthful  air, 
When  I  knelt  by  my  bedside  to  Him  Who  for  us 
died, 
And  lisped  in  meek  accents  my  short,  simple 
prayer. 


46 


How  high  up  the  worn  latch-string  used  to  seem 
to  me,  then — 
The  knotted  latch-string  that  hung  in  the  old 
schoolhouse  door, 
And  how  gravely  the  kind  master  would  mend  my 
quill  pen, 
While   the  wide   slanting   sunbeams   shone   on 
form,  desk  and  floor. 

Life   then   was   all  cheerful,   only  joy   made  me 
tearful, 
My  little  book-laden  satchel  held  all  my  cares 
then; 
The  world  has  changed  sadly,  now  it  seldom  smiles 
gladly, 
And  those  pure,   happy  days  will  never  come 
back  again. 

Still  I  hear  the  distant  ring  of  the  old  schoolhouse 
bell, 
Faintly  nearer  stealing  like  a  once  familiar  song ; 
Still  I  hear  the  blacksmith's  anvil  clinking  through 
the  dell, 
With   the   sound   of   children's   voices    echoing 
along. 

47 


THE  ACADIANS'  HYMN 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  wave, 

Deep  in  the  gilt  blue  sea ; 

The  waters  now  the  calm  shores  lave 

Along  Saint  Martin's  Bay. 

Saint  Martin's  bell  sounds  on  the  ear 

With  holy  melody; 

It  is  the  hour  for  vesper  pray'r; 

Bare  the  head,  bend  the  knee : 

Mater  castissima,  Ave  Maria, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sancta  Maria. 

Lone  boats  drift  on  the  ebbing  tide, 

And  fishermen  I  see 

Casting  their  nets  as  on  they  glide — 

As  once  in  Galilee 

Did  they  who  followed  Mary's  Son, 

E'en  to  sad  Calvary; 

Where  God  the  Father's  will  was  done 

Upon  the  fatal  tree: 

Mater  castissima,  Ave  Maria, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sancta  Maria. 
48 


Saint  Martin's  bell  has  ceased  to  ring; 

The  aisle  and  roof  grow  dim, 

As  priest  and  choir  together  sing 

The  holy  ev'ning  hymn; 

Soon  wafted  out  upon  the  air, 

'Tis  echoed  from  the  sea; 

The  soft  refrain  the  boatmen  hear, 

And  chant  it  piously: 

Mater  castissima,  Ave  Maria, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sancta  Maria. 

Each  ev'ning  hue  has  left  the  sky; 

The  chapel  now  is  still; 

O'er  the  dark  waves  the  west  winds  sigh, 

And  all  the  sails  soon  fill. 

Protect  those  on  the  bay  to-night, 

This  moonless  night,  Mary; 

Watch  over  us  till  morning's  light, 

O  Queen,  Star  of  the  Sea. 

Mater  castissima,  Ave  Maria, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sancta  Maria. 


49 


THE  CHURCHYARD 


Tall  poplars,  like  grim  sentinels,   the  dark  road 
line; 
Huge  shadows  fling  their  changing  forms  upon 
the  ground, 
And  where  the  damp,  neglected  path  turns  to  the 
gate, 
The  wind  gives  forth,  like  one  in  pain,  a  moan- 
ing sound. 


Through  a  dim,  leafy  op'ning  in  the  sombre  trees, 

A  crumbling  tower  lifts  its  old,  gray,  ivied  head, 

Round  which  the  fading  sunbeams  linger  long  at 

eve 

With  hectic  hue ;  while  groping  twilight  shrouds 

the  dead. 


5° 


Then  bats  forth  steal,  and  noiseless  wing  by  the 
still  tombs; 
By  the  decaying  wall,  where  limp  weeds  upward 
creep 
O'er  graves  where  the  long,  tangled  grass  grows 
rank  and  rots, 
And  where  the  lean,  hungry  rat  is  burrowing 
deep. 

In  the  drear,  starless  nights  the  melancholy  owl 
Mopes    silent    on    the    hoary,     lichen-mantled 
stones; 
While  marble  monuments  all  covered  with  green 
mould 
And    ooze    stand    ghost-like    staring    o'er    the 
wasting  bones. 

On  such  sad  nights,  too,  low  whispering  sounds 
are  heard, 

In  mournful  cadence  dying  on  the  dewy  air; 
As  if  the  dead  together  were  communing,  and 

Souls  shut  out  from  heaven  were  weeping  there. 


5* 


About   the    sodded   vaults    the    fleshy   mushroom 
sprouts ; 
The    blood-hued    strawberry   there   too    grows 
rank  and  red; 
Wild  parasites  with  bony,  branching  arms  clasp 
firm 
The    arched,    rusty   doors — to   bar   within  the 
dead. 

Save   through   the    cobwebbed  holes   no   light   in 
those  vaults  shines; 
No  air  is  there  inhaled,  but  a  sick,  earthy  smell 
From  the  black,  mildewed  coffins,  fills  these  dark 
abodes, 
While    round    the    specter    walls    reigns    chill 
death's  silent  spell. 

Beneath  the  mould'ring  coffin-lid  the  skeleton 
Wrapt  in  the  quaint  and  ghastly  fashion  of  the 
dead, 
Grins  hideously,  and  from  its  gloomy,  eyeless  orbs 
Stares   mocking  up   to   where   the   lonely   soul 
hath  fled. 


52 


From  dusk  till  break  of  day  great  phantoms  shift 
and  move; 
Now  from  behind  funereal  trees  striding  quick, 
Then   crouching   strangely  under  tablets   and   by 
mounds ; 
As  though  each  playing  some  appalling  goblin 
trick. 

A  fearful  place  this  still  churchyard,  where  men 
lie  down 
To  sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking,  till 
the  day 
Of  wrath  and  doom   shall  come,   when  the  last 
trump  shall  rouse 
The  dead,  and  the  whole  world  in  air  dissolve 
away. 

There  lie  they  while  the  weary  soul  goes  forth  at 
eve 
To  haunt  through  the  long,  silent  watches  of 
the  night, 
Each  spot  well-known  and  dear  to  it,  in  mortal 
life, 
Till  quiet  dawn  streaks  the   gray  eastern  sky 
with  light. 

53 


Then  back  affrighted  by  the  cock's  shrill  note  it 
steals 
From  the  dispelling  day,  and  hides  in  the  dark 
tomb, 
Till    night   with    her    deep,    mysterious    shadows 
comes, 
And  shrouds  again  each  tablet,  vault,  and  grave 
in  gloom. 


54 


IN  EXTREMIS 

Ev'ry  lamp  is  shining  dimly; 
List!   A  footfall  echoes  slowly; 
Voices  sound  from  dens  unholy; 
And  black  midnight  looks  on  grimly. 
Vice  goes  forth  in   form   alluring, 
Hell  is  now  its  prey  securing. 

All  alone  in  the  great  city, 

Through  the  streets  now  still  and  dreary, 

Walks  an  outcast  sick  and  weary; 

Not  a  soul  on  her  has  pity, 

Solitary  on  she  wanders, 

And  upon  her  future  ponders. 

Health  and  peace  and  grace  have  faded. 
Nothing  has  she  left  to  barter. 
To  the  Evil  One  a  martyr 
She  will  die  if  not  soon  aided; 


55 


For  beside  her  ghastly  grinning 
Death  its  game  from  Life  is  winning. 

Help  her,  Father,  I  implore  Thee! 
Quickly!  Quickly!  Life  is  waning; 
Death  is  ev'ry  moment  gaining, 
And  ready  holds  the  oft-turned  key 
Of  that  dark  and  dreadful  portal 
Never  opened  yet  to  mortal. 

Aid  her  now,  O  blessed  Saviour, 
For  round  her  fiends  infernal  hiss, 
Oh  save  her  from  the  dark  abyss; 
Look  not  on  her  past  behavior; 
For  her  sins  she  suffered  sadly, 
To  misfortune  she  went  madly. 

See,  she  sinks  now  on  the  pavement 
Pillowed  by  a  doorstep  only — 
Death-bed  desolate  and  lonely — 
What  an  end  to  her  enslavement, 
Woeful  night  of  tribulation; 
None  to  give  her  consolation. 


56 


Dimmer  still  the  lamps  are  burning; 
Hearse-like  now  the  black  clouds  lower; 
Angels  now  exert  your  power. 
From  her  evil  ways  she's  turning, 
Listen  to  her  plaintive  sighing; 
Wretched,  homeless  she  is  dying. 


Sight  to  move  a  heart  of  stone; 

Lesson  bitter,  sad  and  fearful; 

Warning  awful,  story  tearful; 

There  she  is  lying  all  alone. 

Spurned  by  friends  and  scorned  by  strangers, 

Father,  guide  her  through  death's  dangers. 


To  her  knees  she  rises  faintly, 
And  now  mutely  begs  of  Heaven 
That  her  sins  may  be  forgiven; 
With  her  hands  uplifted  saintly 
Upward  now  her  prayer  is  going, 
While  hot  tears  are  quickly  flowing. 


57 


Never  yet  did  one  sincerely 
Beg  of  Him  for  absolution 
At  the  hour  of  dissolution 
But  he  gained  it  freely,  clearly. 
Soon  her  guilt  will  be  forgiven; 
Soon  her  soul  will  be  in  Heaven. 

Remember  Calvary's  blessed  hill; 
Jesus,  and  the  thief  when  dying 
To  our  Saviour  humbly  crying. 
Sufferer,  this  remember  still, 
Satan  now  you're  boldly  braving, 
Sorrow  now  your  soul  is  laving. 

See,  her  head  is  bow'd  contritely; 
Guardian  angels  round  her  hover — 
Sister  spirits,  all  is  over, 
None  among  you  shine  more  brightly; 
Spotless,  wash'd  from  sin  and  stain, 
From  sorrow  fled  and  free  from  pain. 


58 


NOTES 

The  Ascension:  Published  May  15,  1891,  in  the  Boston  Daily 
Advertiser. 

My  Lady's  Garden:  Written  for  Miss  Amy  Frances  Collins, 
who  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Donnelly. 

The  Episcopal  Anniversary:  Written  for  Archbishop  Williams' 
twenty-fifth  anniversary;  published  in  the  Boston  Daily 
Advertiser,  March   12,   1891. 

To  a  Lady:  Eleanor  Collins,  known  in  religion  as  Sister  Agatha 
of  the  Visitation  Order,  Brooklyn. 

Mother  Vincent:  Mother  Vincent  was  the  sister  of  Mr.  Don- 
nelly's mother.  The  following  note  accompanied  the  MS 
of  the  poem:  "The  father  of  the  late  Mother  Vincent, 
born  Honoria  Conway,  was  a  subaltern,  on  the  regimental 
staff  of  his  uncle,  Lieut  Col.  Martin,  commanding  the 
Galway  Militia  Regiment.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
Napoleonic  war,  in  the  absence  of  Lord  Clancarty,  its 
colonel,  the  regiment  was  ordered  from  Ireland  to  garrison 
Dover  Castle,  owing  to  the  exigencies  of  the  time,  and 
while  the  wife  of  the  young  officer  was  visiting  him  there, 
from  their  house  in  Ballinasloe,  County  Galway,  their 
daughter,  Honoria,  was  born,  thus  happily  ushered  into  the 
world  as  the  cannon  had  proclaimed  the  victory  of  Waterloo, 
and  peace  to  Europe,  after  long,  weary  years  of  destructive 
war.  The  incident  attending  the  birth  of  the  foundress  of 
the  Sisters  of  Charity  in  New  Brunswick  was  a  romantic 
and  happy  augury  of  her  pious  career." — C.  F.  D. 
59 


Before  a  Portrait:  Lines  suggested  on  receiving  a  crayon  por- 
trait of  Joseph  E.  Sinnott,  of  Philadelphia,  soon  after  his 
death. 

A  Last  Message:  "The  wife  of  a  well-known  Boston  merchant, 
Josiah  Bardwell,  while  visiting  some  friends  in  New  York, 
in  June,  1873,  was  taken  ill  and  died,  before  her  husband 
could  be  informed  of  her  illness.  She  was  a  lady  of  noble 
deeds  and  purposes,  distinguished  for  her  charities,  and 
deservedly  loved  and  admired  for  her  many  virtues.  The 
lines  above  were  suggested  at  the  time  of  her  death  by  the 
recital  of  an  affecting  scene  which  occurred  when  it  was 
announced  to  her  that  she  was  soon  to  die,  and  she  was 
asked  if  she  had  any  word  she  wished  to  send  to  her 
husband.  A  short  time  afterward  the  writer  saw,  for  the 
last  time  to  be  seen  on  earth,  the  handsome,  kindly  face  of 
him  she  loved  so  tenderly,  still  wearing  the  old  kindly  look, 
as  his  remains  were  sadly  laid  away  by  her  side,  in  the 
cemetery ;  there  to  rest  'after  life's  fitful  fever.'  " — C.  F.  D. 

Farewell:  "Lines  suggested  at  the  burial  of  the  remains  of  the 
late  Charles  H.  Mann,  May  23,  1891,  at  Duxbury  church- 
yard, near  which  lie  the  remains  of  many  of  his  kindred 
identified  with  the  early  history  of  Plymouth  Colony." — 
C.  F.  D. 

Lines  to  a  Friend  on  Presenting  a  Book  of  Poems:  Adelaide 
Procter's  poems. 

Blaine:     Published  Boston,  January  28,   1893. 

Lowell:  On  the  death  and  burial  of  the  poet  and  scholar, 
James  Russell  Lowell;  published  August  17,  1891,  in  the 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

General  Meagher:  This  sonnet  was  found  among  Mr.  Don- 
nelly's papers  labeled  in  his  handwriting  "a  rough  draft" 
60 


Thomas  Francis  Meagher  was  born  in  Waterford,  Ire- 
land, August  3,  1823.  He  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Young  Ireland  movement  of  1848,  when,  a  mere  youth,  he 
sprang  into  fame  by  his  marvelous  oratorical  powers.  He 
was  condemned  to  death  for  high  treason,  but  his  sentence 
was  commuted,  and  he  was  transported  to  Van  Dieman's 
Land,  whence  he  effected  a  few  years  later  his  escape  and 
came  to  the  United  States.  On  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil 
War  he  raised  and  commanded  the  Irish  Brigade.  When 
acting  governor  of  Montana  Territory,  he  was  accidentally 
drowned  in  the  Missouri  River,  July,  1867. 
Roma:  "Lines  suggested  from  reading  a  passage  in  Mr.  Hil- 
lard's  charming  book,  Six  Months  in  Italy." — C.  F.  D. 

Stanza  2,  verse  1,  Cloaca, — the  great  sewer  of  Rome — 
Cloaca   Maxima. 

This  poem  was  printed  first  in  the  Boston  Pilot  about 
the  year  1873.  It  was  republished  in  the  Boston  Evening 
Transcript,  March  17,  1885,  with  the  following  note:  "The 
fugitive  column  of  a  newspaper  ofttimes  contains  'a  gem 
of  purest  ray  serene,'  the  paternity  of  which  is,  in  many 
cases,  sought  for  in  vain.  For  some  time  past  there  have 
been  a  number  of  inquiries  touching  the  authorship  of  the 
following  poem.  It  is  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Charles  F. 
Donnelly  of  this  city,  and  appeared  originally  in  the  col- 
umns of  the  Pilot,  something  over  twelve  years  ago." 

The  Obelisk:  "These  lines  were  suggested  by  reading  a  pas- 
sage in  Hawthorne's  Transformation,  on  the  Obelisk  of  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo,  the  first  Egyptian  monolith  brought  to 
Rome,  and  a  familiar  sight  to  all  travelers  entering  the 
Eternal  City,  from  the  North."— C.  F.  D. 

A   Summer  Morning:     Published   March   16,   1861,  in  the  New 
York  Leader,  signed  "Schuyler  Conway." 
61 


The  Irish-American's  Song:  "This  song,  written  to  a  very  old 
Celtic  air — Robin  Adair — was  one  of  the  earliest  of  the 
late  war.  It  was  published  in  the  New  York  Tribune, 
April  20,  1861 ;  was  adopted  as  a  regimental  song  by  the 
Tenth  Ohio  Reg.  Vols.  (Irish-American),  Gen.  Lytle's  old 
regiment,  and  became  popular  among  kindred  organizations 
of  the  army.  It  is  published  in  Frank  Moore's  collection  of 
Songs  of  the  Soldiers,  G.  P.  Putnam  and  Company,  New 
York,  1864." — C.  F.  D.  It  was  republished  in  the  Boston 
Pilot,  June  15,  1861,  signed  "Schuyler  Conway." 

The  Rain  Storm:  Published  May  24,  1862,  in  the  New  York 
Leader,  signed  "Schuyler  Conway." 

The  Old  Schoolhouse:  Published  July  26,  1862,  in  the  New 
York  Leader,  signed  "Schuyler   Conway." 

The  Acadians'  Hymn:  "Acadia  was  the  poetic  name  long 
restricted  to  that  part  of  Nova  Scotia  settled  by  peasants 
from  Normandy  and  Gascony  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  In  their  new  homes  these  primitive 
people  lived  in  quiet  and  contentment  for  many  years.  The 
village  cure  was  their  notary,  lawyer,  physician,  and  judge; 
he  settled  all  differences  which  arose  between  them.  Thriv- 
ing orchards  and  well-tilled  farms  supplied  them  with  fruit 
and  grain;  the  streams  and  inlets  along  the  Bay  of  Fundy 
yielded  them  an  abundance  of  fish,  and  the  forests  around 
were  alive  with  game.  No  people  could  be  more  happy,  till 
the  war  between  England  and  France  broke  out  in  1753. 
Then  the  English  barbarously  took  their  lands  and  flocks 
from  them;  hunted  them  to  the  woods,  or  tore  them  from 
their  homes,  to  send  them  into  exile.  Hundreds  of  the 
unfortunate  people  died  in  different  parts  of  New  England 
and  the  South,  in  the  land  of  strangers,  and  far  from  their 
beautiful  "L'Acadie."  After  years  of  wandering  and  suffer- 
62 


ing,  they  were  allowed  to  return  to  Nova  Scotia,  and  form 
new  settlements,  in  such  places  as  the  British  Government 
chose  to  grant  to  them.  The  descendants  of  these  people 
carefully  preserved,  until  a  generation  ago,  all  the  quaint 
customs  of  their  ancestors,  and  lived  in  the  same  simple 
manner,  wearing  the  same  old  picturesque  costume,  speaking 
still  the  language  of  La  Belle  France,  and  worshiping  in 
the  faith  of  their  fathers.  The  accompanying  stanzas  but 
faintly  describe  a  sunset  scene  often  witnessed  along  La  Baie 
Sainte  Marie  where  many  of  the  descendants  of  the  exiled 
Acadians  have  lived  for  more  than  a  century.  A  little 
farther  northward,  at  the  head  of  the  adjacent  Bay  of 
Fundy,  or  La  Baie  Franchise,  as  the  early  navigators  called 
it,  lies  Longfellow's  village  of  Grand  Pre,  with  nothing 
French  about  it  now,  unless  the  ghosts  of  the  exiled  and 
murdered  Acadians  haunt  the  place  they  were  robbed  of  so 
cruelly."  C.  F.  D.  This  note,  by  Mr.  Donnelly,  was  pub- 
lished with  the  poem,  August  9,  1862,  in  the  New  York 
Leader,  signed  "Schuyler  Conway." 

The  Churchyard:     Published  August  16,  1862,  in  the  New  York 

Leader,  signed   "Schuyler  Conway." 
In    Extremis:     Written    for     the     New     York    Leader,     signed 

"Schuyler  Conway." 


63 


A 


